


The Unseelie Champion

by Dreamicide



Series: The Knight of Faerie [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fae, Angst, Autistic Keith (Voltron), Child Keith (Voltron), Fae & Fairies, Fae Shiro (Voltron), Gen, Unseelie Court
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-14 13:02:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28795839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreamicide/pseuds/Dreamicide
Summary: A short vignette of Shiro’s point of view in the first chapter of The Knight of Faerie.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Series: The Knight of Faerie [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2111211
Comments: 7
Kudos: 29





	The Unseelie Champion

**Author's Note:**

> This probably won’t make much sense unless you read at least the first four chapters of The Knight of Faerie! Just a little peak into Shiro’s life as the Unseelie prisoner. :) Thanks for reading!

_What have you done?_  
 _Is this what you wanted?_  
 _What have you become?_  
 _His soul's not forsaken_  
 _You're walking alone_  
 _From heaven into hell_  
 _Now that you know_  
 _Your way in this madness_  
 _Your powers are gone_  
 _Your chains have been broken_  
 _You've suffered so long_  
 _You will never change._  
A Demon’s Fate, Within Temptation 

  
*

Shiro doesn’t know how long the battle has been raging for. The sun has long since set, leaving the moon to illuminate the chaos that reigns around him. 

Goblins wielding daggers slice into their targets. Ogres tear the wings off pixies. Hobmen light the roots of dryad trees on fire. Barghests rip into the flesh of a fallen centaur. A unicorn impales the heart of a screaming banshee. Elven knights duel with hags. A leshy crushes a will o’ the wisp in its gnarled, bony hands, grinding it to dust. Pillywiggins versus poleviks. Salamanders versus selkies. Incubi versus ieles. 

A myriad of colors stains Shiro’s sword, each from the blood of a different fae. He’s long ago ceased counting how many he runs down. The knight simply lets his body move without resistance, without protest. Obeying every word given to him by the master of his name. 

They have breached the hill. Ugly, grotesque creatures swarm in through the entrance, attacking both soldier and citizen. Axes crack open skulls. Maces bash in knees. Arrows pierce through throats. 

Shiro slices through a member of the Seelie gentry. When they fall, a troll stands before Shiro, face set in determination. His large incisors press against his upper lip as he scowls, pitch black eyes glaring through Shiro. He dons the armor of the Seelie, white and pale blue plates interlocking over his large muscles. 

Shiro knows him. 

“Sir Shirogane,” the troll, Reshlam, says. “You may not remember me, but many seasons ago I served as your squire. More than anyone, I did not want to believe the reports of your sightings in battle, fighting for the Unseelie. But I have seen now, with my own eyes, this massacre you lead.”

Shiro wants more than anything to say he remembers. He remembers how the young troll stumbled over his own feet when first learning the blade. The stories they shared together over the campfire. How proud he is of Reshlam for since becoming a knight, serving his queen. 

But it is too late.

Reshlam is already dead.

Shiro closes his eyes. 

“Is there really no hope left for you? No words I can say to make you see your wrongs?”

The sárkány says nothing. 

“Very well.” Reshlam draws his sword. “Then to my former master, Sir Shirogane, I challenge you to a d—,”

The troll never finishes his sentence, for his throat is sliced open. Dark green blood and ichor spray on Shiro’s sword, running down his arms. Reshlam falls to the ground, lifeless. 

Shiro gives himself no time to grieve over his mentee. He steps over the troll’s body and moves on, deeper into the hill. 

Before, many years ago, Shiro would have wept. He would have cried out for mercy. He would have begged to spare Reshlam’s life.

But the Unseelie King enjoys the sounds of Shiro’s pleas far more than his quiet obeisance. 

*

Earlier that morning, the Unseelie King called for him. 

The iron band across Shiro’s face burned like a white hot poker as he stepped into the king’s tent, his expression belying nothing of the pain he was in. 

King Zarkon sat on a throne of thorns. The Unseelie King was a redcap, his skin the color of a day old bruise and eyes like yellow pus. For the day’s battle he wore his revered cap, stiffened and brown from being dipped into the blood of wars long past. His king’s armor was a deep dark red, donning the same symbol on the chest plate as Shiro’s. 

Shiro went down on his knees before the king could speak. It was one of the first commands he was ever given: _“You will always kneel before me.”_

King Zarkon’s mouth curled into a satisfied sneer. 

“You will fight today,” he drawled in his low baritone voice. “By the power of your name, I command you slaughter every Seelie that dares approach you.”

Shiro stared at the ground and said nothing. He didn’t need to say anything. He and the king both already knew he would do it. 

_“And_ those who dare not.”

Letting his eyes fall closed is the most reaction Shiro allowed himself to have. To grimace would only please the Unseelie King even further. 

But then the redcap said: “I wonder what I would enjoy more: to kill Queen Allura myself, or to give _you_ the honors of watching the life drain out of her eyes as you run her through with your blade.”

Shiro’s eyes flew open in horror.

It was the wrong move.

King Zarkon leaned back in his throne, lips stretching around a taunting smirk. “Oh, you like that idea, do you? Perhaps I will even return you the very sword she bestowed upon your knighting ceremony. Is that not a beautiful betrayal?”

The knight’s hand balled into a fist on the ground. He couldn’t react, _he could not react—_

“Please,” he heard himself whisper pathetically. 

King Zarkon threw his head back and laughed. It was a horrible sound that sent shivers down the spine of any who listened. It rumbled deep in his belly for several agonizing moments as Shiro mentally self flagellated. 

“I believe that seals my decision.”

Shiro grit his teeth, filled with self loathing. 

*

And so Shiro fights.

It is no battle. It is a butcher. 

Before the sun rises there are no more Seelie left alive. Bodies are strewn all over the hallways and ballrooms. Hobs and brownies eat the flesh off their bones. King Zarkon dips his cap into the blood of the general that commanded the hill, and declares they will revel in celebration for a fortnight. 

The Unseelie army dances and sings. Shiro is forced to battle for entertainment and fells an ogre. He gets a miniscule amount of satisfaction at the fact it was an Unseelie he killed. 

When the king has no use for him, Shiro is given reign to roam the hill. The iron band is a staunch reminder that he is never truly free. Soldiers and courtiers jeer at him as he passes. A goblin pinches his shin. A rusalka bats her eyelashes. A ballybog belches mud over his boots. 

Toward the tail end of their festivities, Shiro finds himself standing by a low wooden table filled to the brim with all sorts of food, watching the circles of dancers. He hears a commotion coming from one side of the hall, and then something bumps into his legs. 

Shiro glances down to see a child gaping up at him, clutching a jar to his chest. His shaggy black hair frames a round face with eyes the color of indigo dye. He could not have yet seen his fifth summer. 

It takes a moment for Shiro to realize that he is looking at a human. The scent is unmistakable. 

They stare at each other for a moment, before one of the kitchen workers appears from the crowd and grasps the child by the hair. Shiro watches in muted interest as even Lord Sendak approaches, confused at how a human could have found his way into their revelry. 

It gathers the attention of other fae. They mingle around the human, all shouting and suggesting more and more horrible things to do to him. Shiro observes the way the child’s face scrunches, soft hiccups in his throat, before someone eats the salamander the human held captive and then the floodgates open. The child rears his head back and cries, tears streaming down his chubby cheeks. 

Up until that point, Shiro thought that he could not care. The child will die by the hands of the fae, through no fault of his own other than being unlucky enough to stumble into an Unseelie revel. That was the way things went around here.

But as the child weeps, Shiro slowly comes to the realization that he does not want to see this child die. 

He does not want to think about the implications; that there is still some good left in his wretched existence, that his heart is not as stone as he thought it was.

So he does not think. He merely places a hand on the child’s head and murmurs a charm to calm him down. The human looks up through tearful eyes. The color is beautiful. 

“I will take this child,” Shiro announces. 

All of the fae are displeased, and complain that he will simply devour the boy whole and leave not even a scrap for the rest of them. Shiro lets them think that. If they knew his real plan, they would put up much more of a fight to prevent his claim to the child. 

Startlingly, Shiro realizes that he would not hesitate to challenge them all to a duel for the boy. He would slaughter however many he needed to let him live, damn any consequences he would face later. The feeling wells up like a warm, bright bubble in his chest, catching him off guard. 

Perhaps he is not as broken as he once assumed. 

Whatever he feels inside does not show up on his expression, as he scoops the child into his arms and walks away. The crowd continues to complain and make comments, but he ignores them all. He also ignores the way the child gazes up at him in wonder. The charm would have worn off by now, yet the boy does not start back up his wailing. 

Shiro carries the human out of the hill. When they exit through the arched stones, Shiro is hit with the boy’s scent more strongly out in the open air. He takes a moment to study its source, and then turns south. 

The Unseelie must all think he immediately dropped his glamour and ripped into the boy with his teeth, leaving not a single drop of blood unlicked. Shiro prefers it that way. As long as he stays within the territory of the Unseelie, he should be fine. His iron band is enchanted to alert King Zarkon if he ever were to attempt escape. 

Shiro did try, once. 

Just once. 

The creatures of the night all fall quiet at his arrival. It has been that way ever since Shiro was first unleashed as an Unseelie soldier; perhaps they sense the underlying evil in his heart. 

Even the child is silent. 

In fact, the boy has not said a single word throughout his ordeal. If Shiro had not already witnessed his voice in use from his crying, Shiro would think him mute. 

Finally he breaks the silence. “You are awfully quiet for a human child. What are you called?”

Shiro follows after the boy’s scent as he waits for an answer. Eventually the boy says, “Keith. Keith Yorak Knight—,”

Shiro all but slams his hand over the child’s mouth, but it is too late. The poor thing has already given it. _“Never_ speak your full name around the Folk again!” He bares his fangs. “Do you understand me, foolish one?”

The boy—Keith—looks terrified, but nods. 

Shiro sighs and lowers his hand. This child really would be dead if not for him, and he tells him as much. Keith doesn’t seem to understand the severity of his actions. 

Keith Yorak Knight.

Shiro frowns. Yorak… is a distinctly _Unseelie_ sounding name. He studies the child, looking for any signs of fae lineage. 

But no. No matter how much Shiro looks at him, Keith is human through and through. 

Instead of being worried, Keith asks for Shiro’s name. Oh, to have the innocence of a child. 

“I am called Shiro,” he answers. No one has called him as such in many, many years. Not ever since… 

“Shroe.”

Shiro huffs through his nose, burning with the iron brand. He says his name again, slower this time. Keith gets it right after another try. 

When Keith asks if Shiro is going to eat him, Shiro shocks himself by laughing. When was the last time he laughed? The sound is foreign in his lungs. The instinctive curl of his lips feels so good it almost hurts. “No, little one. I am not going to eat you.”

When they make it to a clearing where Keith’s scent is at its strongest, Shiro instructs the boy to start carrying dry oatmeal, a classic deterrent against evil fae. Even if it would work against Shiro himself, that would be alright. That would be how it should. 

He sets the child down, feeling a strange sense of melancholy. Keith simply looks up at him with eyes full of wonder and says, “I love you.”

Shiro laughs again, louder than before. He can’t tell if it’s true amusement at his innocence or sardonic at his ignorance. No, the boy would not love him if he knew even half of the things Shiro was capable of. If he knew half the things the sárkány already did. 

Instead of saying these things Shiro crouches down and ruffles a hand through the child’s soft black hair. 

“Gratitude. The love of a human is a precious thing.” And not one he has deserved in a very long time. Despite that, Shiro feels his eyes soften, clinging to this moment of reprieve from his hellish existence. 

Alas, it is not meant to last. 

“Now go. Someone is waiting for you.” He gestures toward the small shack where Keith’s scent is strongest, and is without a doubt his home. 

The boy gasps and runs off toward the shack with nary a farewell. Shiro feels his chest ache with longing as Keith reunites with his father. Wrapping a glamour of invisibility around him, Shiro watches their embrace quietly. Even when Keith turns his head and glances his way, Shiro does not reveal himself. 

*

When he returns to the hill later, the Folk have forgotten all about the human boy, resuming their dancing and revelry. All but Lord Sendak, who looks at Shiro with a studying eye. 

“I trust you enjoyed reaping the benefits of your boon,” he says sardonically. 

Shiro doesn’t answer. 

Lord Sendak only scowls, claws digging into his arms where they cross. “Remember, Shirogane: you are a broken knight. The king may let you wander off as you please, but you will _never_ be free. Everything you are, physical and incorporeal, belongs to him. Do you understand?”

Shiro closes his eyes, his throat thick. 

“Yes.”

**Author's Note:**

> [@Twitter](https://mobile.twitter.com/swanhildedream?lang=en)


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